Songs of Skyrim
by jschneids
Summary: Moments and glimpses into the life and journey of the greatest hero of the Fourth Age: the Dovahkiin, Dragonborn
1. Midnight Snack

**Hey there folks. So, while working through one hell of a writer's block, this little scene popped into my head. Always wanted to do an Elder Scrolls fanfic, so guess there's no time like the present! This thing will probably work as a series of vignettes, not one solid narrative, and I make no promises on when it will be updated. By all means though, if you're still with me, than read one! Hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it.**

Tendrils of smoke coiled up and out from their campfire, disappearing into the stygian black of night. Roiling clouds obscured the infinite stars of Skyrim's night sky, and not even the glow of the twin moons could pierce it. Crickets chirped and bats screeched overhead as night descended upon the Rift.

"What was it like, the first time you fed?"

The words broke the placid scene, and the woman across the fire from the speaker turned to face him. Her eyes glowed like twin embers in the night, raven hair framing a delicate face pale as moonlight. Full lips curled up into a mournful smile, flashing her fangs.

"Why do you ask?" she answered her companion, turning those twin embers upon his form, just beyond the flickering firelight.

He was stocky for a Dunmer, and tall as well. That much was evident, even seated as he was. The sharp features of his face were wrinkled, high brows furrowed in concentration as calloused fingers traced the contours of Hircine's Ring, its carved wolf's head staring blankly into space. Finally, he looked away form the trinket, his crimson eyes meeting hers.

"The night I received the beast-blood…I lost control," he started, voice soft. "It was like a dream, my mind was in a haze…a bloodlust. I knew what I was doing, and yet…at the same time the actions weren't my own. I remember ripping a guard in two, just because I could. Letting the blood trickle down my throat…" He stopped, shuddering. Though whether it was out of a horror or pleasure, she couldn't tell.

"It took me so long to get control over it, to tame the part of me that had begun to see everyone around me as just another hunk of meat. Another meal. And there are still times I can't control it. Its just like there's something inside me, something-"

"Primal?" she asked, stopping his words in their tracks. "An animal hunger that you can't control? Believe me, I know all about that." The woman paused, her glowing eyes betraying an ancient pain.

"The ritual my family went through to become…this…was agony. The night after it, I died." She said this with hesitation, as if the words themselves were painful to speak. "When I woke, I was laid out on the altar to Molag Bal, dressed in crimson. The coven had left sacrifices for us, and the blood, it was…" she bit her lip, fangs peeking out once more, "delicious. Bliss. There's always a drive to reach that bliss again, a-"

"A hunger," the dark elf finished. The woman could only nod, the crackling flames and her burning eyes casting wild shadows against her pallid face.

"Do you ever feel guilty about it?" he asked, pocketing the ring at last, his eyes staring deep into the swirling flames.

"About what I am? Who I am? No, never," his companion answered, her voice steel. "What I went through to gain this power…. I earned it. I'll never be ashamed of what I am, and you shouldn't be either."

The elf gave a small smile. "Thank you, Serana. The other members of the Circle, they wouldn't understand. They revel in the power Hircine grants us, but-"

"Power doesn't make a man a monster," Serana answered him, rising up from her seat and walking around the fire to lay a comforting hand on her companion's shoulder. "Our choices, how we use that power, those are what make us who we are." Her smile began to fade as she continued. "Becoming a vampire didn't twist my father into the monster he became. He chose that path. Just like I chose mine, with you."

She laid a soft kiss upon his cheek, and the weary werewolf gave a smile.

"We don't prey upon the innocent," the vampire continued, her voice soft. "And that makes all the difference."

"Aww, well ain't that cute," came a harsh new tone, curdled with the accent of the Riften Ratways. "Two sweethearts out for a midnight tumble. We've got you surrounded. Now stand and deliver!"

Serana met her companion's gaze and smiled, baring her fangs.

"Care for a midnight snack?" he asked casually.

**Well that's it for my first foray into the world of Skyrim. Hope you enjoyed. Please review!**


	2. Kingslayer

**Back for round two! This time, we'll be tackling a canon(ish) scene from the SKyrim Civil War quest line. Hope you guys enjoy.**

The city of Windhelm was in ruins, its great gates shattered, its streets littered with corpses. War had come at last to its ancient walls, and spilled over them in a tide of blood and fire. Stormcloak clashed with Legionnaire, patriot with traitor, and brother with brother as the ring of steel sang throughout the city's stone courtyards and alleyways. Crimson blood and soot blacker than night stained the cobblestones as catapult stones coated in burning pitch rained down with the snow.

His armor pitted and scarred from countless encounters, a Dunmer strode through the shattered gates, sword in hand. The Candlehearth Inn was wreathed in fire, its shingled roof going up in flames just as surely as the memories the dark elf held of the place. At the corner where he would go begging laid a boy barely older than he had been when he had left the city not so long ago, the doomed lad's Stormcloak armor hanging loosely about his frame as he clutched desperately at the arrow lodged in his gut. Tears streamed down his soot-streaked face, catching on the blonde fuzz about his chin. With a quick and clean slice, the elf gave him the greatest mercy he could, and the young Nord's lifeblood spilled from his throat. The elf walked on, numb to the battle raging around him as memories returned unbidden.

The smoke and screams that emanated from the depths of the Gray Quarter dredged up every painful memory of his childhood that he had. All of the days spent picking pockets and the dodging the guard, every day spent rooting through trash heaps for a scrap to eat, each cut, scrape, and bruise he'd ever received at the hands drunk Nords as they bandied through the Quarter's alleys, looking for a target to vent their rage upon, all of it came rushing back in tide of pain that drowned out every feeling but one; rage. This was why he had joined the Legion. This was why he fought. This was why Ulfric Stormcloak would die.

A bash from his shield broke the nose and the charge of the rebel who had come screaming towards him, battle-axe upraised. A swing of his sword rent her head from her neck, and the bloody orb went rolling down the street, splattering the cobblestones with every tumble. It came to rest amongst the shattered and overturned stalls of the market square, where he'd seen so many of his friends beaten and abused for daring to stray from the Grey Quarter, daring to wish for a life beyond the slum.

He cut the next group of Ulfric's pawns down with ease, adding fresh corpses to the city's ancient graveyard. Out the corner of his eye, the elf saw a Stormcloak bowman mount the wall across the courtyard from him, and hissing curses he dove behind the nearest tomb just as an arrow whizzed through the space previously occupied by his head. Before the bowman could even nock another arrow, a burnished crossbow bolt lodged itself in his throat, and the man went down sputtering and gurgling blood. With a mechanical precision, the Dunmer reloaded the dwarven crossbow and dispatched a second enemy archer, silently thanking Sorinne and the Dawnguard for the contraption's designs. The weapon's durability was proving invaluable.

Well-watered in Nordic blood, the elf rounded the next corner of Windhelm's twisting stairs and alleys, only to come face to face with a half dozen Stormcloaks, weapons bared and murder in their eyes. A war cry left their lips and joined the city's symphony of death as they rushed forward.

The Dragonborn glared at them with hatred just as strong and breathed deep.

His words burnt as they left his lips, his will given form as hellfire. The great corona of flame thundered down the narrow stone passageway, the frigid winter air yielding to its fury as it washed over the Nords. Their cries of agony fell upon deaf ears as the dark elf stepped quickly past their writhing, smoldering forms. He would suffer no more delays. The Stormcloak Rebellion would die today.

The doors of the Palace of the Kings were thrown open as the Dragonborn stalked inside, Legate Rikke and General Tullius at his side. The massive chamber with its vaulted ceilings and great banquet table stood empty, save for two: Ulfric himself, in repose upon his throne, and the hulking form of his housecarl, Galmar.

"Ulfric Stormcloak!" the general cried as he entered the hall. "You are guilty of insurrection, murder of Imperial citizens, the assassination of High King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire."

The trio advanced on the throne, blades drawn and glinting in the light.

"Its over!"

"Not while I'm still breathing," Galmar growled, the fur-clad Nord drawing his weapon from across his back.

Legate Rikke snarled. "Step aside, Galmar. We're here to accept Ulfric's surrender."

The Jarl of Windhelm stared down at the people below him, his city in flames, the scent of smoke and death permeating even here. "I'll never surrender Skyrim into the hands of a corrupt and dying Empire," he answered them gravely, a man resigned to his fate.

"Skyrim doesn't belong to you, Ulfric," Rikke answered him, her tone level, almost pleading.

"No…but I belong to her." Ulfric's eyes were weary, his face haggard, yet at peace. He knew what would come next.

"Enough!" the general shouted, his face furrowed in frustration at the fatalism and obstinacy of the Nords. "You are traitors, and will die traitors deaths! Stand down and face public execution, or advance and face summary execution by my hands!" The old man spat. "It matters little to me. Either way I'll be sending your heads back to Cyrodiil"

The fur-clad mountain that was Galmar cracked his neck and looked expectantly at his lord. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

Ulfric Stormcloak was still for a moment, his eyes pensive before they took on a dark turn. "What indeed," he murmured.

"Sir, look out!" Rikke shouted as she dove for her commander, knocking him out of the way as Ulfirc rose to his feet, words upon his lips. Too late, the elf realized what has happening and he raised his shield in a futile attempt at protection.

In a blast of force so familiar to him, the Dragonborn was sent flying backwards, tumbling like a ragdoll until he crashed upon the banquet table, platters, goblets, and candlesticks flying his wake. Disentangling himself from the silverware, the elf rose to shaking feet, the world spinning and his ears ringing.

"So that's what that feels like," he murmured to himself as he stumbled his first few steps forward. "Good to know."

As the room stopped spinning , the Dunmer saw bleak prospects before him. The general was holding Ulfric at bay with a sword as grizzled as its wielder, but the Legate had not been so lucky. With a roar, Galmar brought his axe down towards her head, and a hasty parry was all that saved her life. The savage strike sent her reeling backwards, and triumphant the Stormcloak's second-in-command readied himself to finish the job. The Dragonborn's mind raced as quickly as his hands. There was no way he could cover the distance in time, not even with the power of the Thu'um. With one fluid motion he pulled his crossbow from his back, leveled it at Ulfirc's lieutenant, and fired.

The bolt lodged itself into the man's armored shoulder just as he raised his ax overhead for a killing blow. A split second later, the fire salts contained in the chamber in its tip ignited. Galmar Stone-Fist screamed as the furs he wore lit like kindling beneath the power of the bolt's alchemical contents. The fire bolts had been another gift from the Dwemer, courtesy of Sorinne. Howling as he tried to free himself from his burning armor, Galmar's axe fell from his hands, clattering to the floor. When at last he hurled the flaming furs from his body, the Nord whirled back to face his opponent. What he found instead was her sword, slashing open his belly. Her next strike was a mercy, straight through his chest.

As the warrior gave one final gasp, his legs gave out beneath him, and a corpse tumbled to the floor, blood and guts spilling out onto the stone.

"No!" Ulfric cried, as he watched life depart from his brother-in-arms. A moment later, he joined him on the ground as a backhanded strike from General Tulius rent the tendons behind his knee.

"Well Ulfric," the old Imperial said, breathing heavily, "you can't escape from me this time. Any last requests before I send you to…wherever it is you people go when you die?"

"Sovngarde, sir," Legate Rikke answered softly, limping over to join her commander. The Dragonborn followed suit.

"Right," Tulius answered her. "Well?" he asked the fallen Jarl once more, expectantly.

"Let the Dragonborn be the one to do it," Ulfric spat as he kneeled, one hand bracing himself against the ground. "It will make for a better song."

"Song or not, I just want it done!"

As the elf looked upon the hunched over form of the Jarl of Windhelm, he saw the face of every injustice the land had ever dealt him. He saw the face of the suffering he'd endured as a child, a castaway adrift in the Gray Quarter's sea of miseries, miseries his people still lived with. He saw the face of the Stormcloak Rebellion, their pompous self-righteousness, their institutionalized hate. The words came from his mouth almost unbidden barely more than a whisper.

"I'll gladly kill him."

The general's next words were lost on him, but he took the man's offered sword in silence. In the Dunmer's mind, there was only him and Ulfric as he strode over to where the Jarl rested. He locked eyes with the man, and not a word was said.

Steel flashed, blood flowed, and revenge was sweet.

**Hope you guys liked it. Was a fun one to write, for sure. As for my Imperial alignment, well I always found the Stormcloaks to be pretty racist. Even a casual trip through Windhelm will confirm that. With my Dragonborn being a dark elf, it only made even more sense. Anyways, please review and comment, and if there's any scene, from quests or otherwise, that you'd like to see, just let me know in the reviews. Until next time folks.**


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